Sillage
by loading-creativity
Summary: Fourth of July. America is celebrating his Independence Day. France, on the other hand, is waiting for a certain drunkard to stop by at his house. FrUK. Rewritten version of "Mon Amour, mon petit lapin, mon Angleterre". Prequel to "Querencia".
1. Chapter 1

Warnings: Slash; alcohol consumption.

_Disclaimer: Axis Power Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. And the song "Shiver*" belongs to Coldplay._

~o~

SILLAGE

_(Pronounced as see-yazh)_

_The scent that lingers in air, the impression made in space after something or someone has been and gone; the trace of someone's perfume._

~o~

It was the Fourth of July. And like every other Fourth of July, America was partying at his house. Nations from all over the world were invited to celebrate with him, even Russia. The high-light of the night would be a show of fireworks by the end of it, blue and red and white colouring the dark sky as everyone smiled and clapped, some more enthusiastically than others. France had received an invitation. And like every other Fourth of July, he sent an expensive gift to the American, thanked for the thought, but ended up turning down the offer. America didn't insist, he never did – not like he did with England, at least.

The Frenchman's fingers clutched tight onto the stem of his wine-glass when he swirled it. With little to no interest, blue eyes watched the carmine liquid slosh inside its confines. America's lack of concern towards England annoyed him. Could the American truly not notice the accentuated decline in the Briton's health as July approached? How England still flinched when the boy's Independence was brought up? He coughed _blood_ at the mere mention of it for God's sake. The American couldn't be that oblivious... Then again, he was the one that suggested that a robot was the solution for the World's problems all the time. So, yes, maybe he was that oblivious. Or he simply chose to believe England's sudden illness had nothing to do with him and ignored it altogether.

The idea made bile rise to France's mouth. He swallowed a large mouthful of wine – Château de St.-Cosme, one of his favourites – to get rid of the vile taste. "Inès" He called, snapping his fingers a few times.

"_Oui, Monsieur Bonnefoy_?" She asked, standing next to him with the bottle of wine securely wrapped on a white linen cloth, and snuggled in her arms. He observed the buxom brunette with detached interest as she filled his empty glass. "_Merci_" He said before sending her away.

Any other day and he would have considered making a move. _Never_ on this day, though. He simply couldn't. Just the thought of it made his heart twist uncomfortably and a heavy weight settle in his stomach. And the colours of her eyes had been wrong – _off_, somehow.

They should have been green instead of hazel. Lime green – bright and vivacious. And her hair should have been a chopped butter-blond. _And her brows_... France frowned and sighed as he emptied his second glass that night. He didn't want her, and that was that. Elbow nailed firmly onto the armchairs' arm, he rested his chin onto the palm of his free hand. His eyes wandered around the room. It was dark. The curtains were draw shut and barely any light was on, making the room hardly visible. It reflected his mood, he supposed.

Putting his glass on the nearest table, he allowed himself to hark back a bit. Unlike his friend on the other side of _La Manche_, he did not indulge in such activities too often. He stared at the fine curtains, bought in Turkey, and the small sculpture resting on top of the window-sill, a present from Seychelles - the latter, obviously, was infinitely more precious to him than the former. He saw small trinkets from all over the world – from places he conquered to places he simply visited on whichever opportunity he had. His Magnum Opus was a small thing, really: A simple bouquet of wildflowers.

It lacked some petals because of a young child's eagerness, and it had already dried due to time. It hang on top of his fireplace – framed – so he could always look at it. "Oh, _mon petit lapin_." He remembered the day _Angleterre_ caught them, and consequently gifted him with his prize. So proud had the little Nation been. He wasn't _Angleterre_ then, however. He went by Albion, and France was called Gaul. A soft small – bittersweet, too – made France's lips twitch upwards. "_Mon Angleterre_." He had been a handful, even as a child. But France couldn't help but being fascinated by that strange creature and his monstrous eyebrows.

He closed his eyes and let himself be dragged into the darkness and scrapes of memories. Long past, long gone – but never forgotten.

The sound of laugh, a bit raspy because of smoking so much, but loud and carefree, was the first thing that came to mind. It was so real, that France could almost swear _Angleterre_ had been laughing in his ear. And then there was the flash of green. Bright green eyes, determined, defiant, proud – fearless. The taste of blood and smell of smoke gunpowder followed. Clash of swords, gunshots, screams. And then words. A cacophony of words: perjures, insults, compliments and barely concealed words of worry and comfort. Everything connected. It was history and it was life, and all lead to _Angleterre_. His spitfire, brave, foolish, cranky, grumpy, foul-mouthed Briton.

He was an idiot, he supposed. And he could already hear dear _Angleterre_ snorting and asking why it took so long for him to figure it out. "Oh, _mon chèrie_," He lamented as the clock chimed, announcing the already late hours. France was a bit startled by it. He hadn't thought that going down the memory lane would make him lose track of the time so much.

He knew it wasn't healthy to pine for someone for so long, so tirelessly. But just thinking of having him in his arms once more – just once more – made him sigh in contentment, heat pool in his navel and hope gnaw at his heart. They had been together on and off throughout the centuries. It all ended when France decided – _stupide, stupide, stupide_ – to help America gain his Independence. Sometimes he hated himself for being so weak. For being so in love. To be ensnared by such a sinful creature... He wondered what kind of crime he had committed against God Almighty.

And yet he could never go by a day he wouldn't dream of the blond; of holding him, kissing him, making love to him. He fought with the blond at every turn so his attention would never stray, neither to that fat American brat, nor to one of the others. Spain, Prussia, and Netherlands – He would have to be blind not to notice them. And a complete idiot to boot. He was neither, much to their misfortune.

Sneering at the thought of his 'enemies', he closed his hand tightly, drawing blood when the nails broke the skin of his palm. "_Bâtards_,"

Breathing in deeply, he comforted himself with the knowledge that _Angleterre_ considered him – "the frog" – one of his closest friends, if not **the** closest friend. He was also the only one the Englishman invited along every time he wanted to hit the night. And as he was dragged to all the seediest parts of London, he would smoother his sappy smiles – he truly enjoyed spending time with _Angleterre_. Even if it was to see the other get drunk until he started to strip in the middle of a fairly cramped public space. It was fun, nonetheless. And France got to enjoy _Angleterre_ all for himself for a few hours, at least.

The reason he was patiently waiting in his private quarters had little to do with this... _Non_, that was a lie – _it had everything to do with it_. With _Angleterre_. With his feelings for the other blond. With their history. And even with _Amerique_, to a degree. He was preparing himself. Steeling his poor nerves with wine and readying himself to face this loathsome date.

The fourth of July; the date _Angleterre_ hated the most out of the 365 days of the year. And he was waiting – waitingfor a certain drunkard to stop by at his house, one whom he would comfort whilst the Brit lamented about another man in his arms. It was painful, extremely so, but France liked to believe it had brought them closer as the years passed by.

When the sound of wailing and drunken babbling finally reached his ears, he got up and walked briskly to the door. All his employees had been given the same order as of past years: If a blond man with thick eyebrows and green eyes appear, let him in. Simple and to the point. No questions asked as these orders became routine around this time of the year. And they knew _Angleterre_ by now, for Christ's sake.

It seemed they followed it to a 'T' once again, for there, at his door, was a battered Brit with eyes puffy and red from crying and tear-stained cheeks curled at the floor like a frightened rabbit. "Oh _mon chèr_," He whispered softly as he carded his fingers through the Englishman's hair and cradled his face into the crook of his neck.

"I see you finally escaped from his party, _non_?" France teased as he pulled his friend inside, trying to be as gentle as possible "Do you want to share how much of a bore it was, _mon ami_?"

As he gathered the man he loved in his arms, he felt his hearts strings being painfully tugged at. Not for the first time he regretted helping that ungrateful American – He probably would live the rest of his days regretting the rash decision. He had loved the Brit back them, but the desire to surpass the fast growing British Empire had been bigger and certainly much stronger than said affections. "Come on, _Angleterre_."

"Let's get you cleaned, yes? Yellow greenish puke is not your colour, _mon amour_,"

To care so much for someone was as much of a curse as it was a blessing. And when _Angleterre_ wailed and cried, his sobs shaking his whole frame, France felt as if he was hurting just as much as the man. His poor _chèrie_.

"Come on," He said as he pulled Angleterre closer to his chest. The man was far too cold for his liking, so putting him to sleep immediately wasn't the best course of action to be taken. "After you have a nice bath you can complain all you want, _d'accord_?"

It was painful to love someone who didn't love you back. It hurt more than a lot of physical wounds he had acquired over the years. It was painful, and hard, and very, very trying. Most of the time he felt utterly hopeless and helpless and absolutely pathetic. For the so called "country of the love" he was an utter fail. But France would never give up on what he felt for his _Angleterre_, his _petit lapin_ – it was, after all, what kept him going during his darkest times, and when he felt like he had hit rock-bottom, it was what pulled him up. "Would you like for me to sing, _mon chèrie_?"

His lips curled minutely when he felt the slight nod of the other blond.

Being with _Angleterre_ made all the pain bearable and worthwhile, all the suffering meaningless in the grand scheme of things – Especially so when he looked at France with his doe green eyes like that – so vulnerable and unprotected, so trusting. His _petit lapin_. "Do you mind if I choose this time, _Angleterre_?"

A weak shake of head was all the answer France got. Then again, it was all the answer he needed. He cleared his throat before beginning, making it somewhat of a spectacle for _Angleterre_. The little – drunk, most assuredly – giggle he received for his efforts lifted his spirits quite a bit. "What should I sing...? Oh! I heard this fantastic song. Maybe you have heard it? It's from one of your bands, I'm sure." France questioned gently, as he removed _Angleterre_'s dirty shirt, exposing his thin chest. It was quick work for his dexterous hands, and before the other blond could even open his mouth to protest, he was already in some of France's pyjamas.

As he put _Angleterre_ in his bed – the green-eyed Briton sinking in the soft mattress with a quiet sigh – France began to sing.

He never sang the same song twice, but they all followed a certain... Pattern. It was a wonder the Brit had yet to understand his feelings. Well, the island nation was well known for being a bit... Thick, to put it mildly, when it came to his private life. More so, his love life.

_"__So I look in your direction,_

_But you pay me no attention, do you?"_

Blue eyes softened considerably as they stared at the already sleeping Englishman in his bed, smelling faintly of lilacs after the quick shower France gave him. He carefully moved butter-blond strands of hair from his _petit-lapin_'s forehead. Silly _Angleterre_, always worrying him.

_"__I know you don't listen to me._

_'cause you say you see straight through me, don't you?"_

Sighing, France straightened and took a few steps back, away from his bed and the Briton. "America" _Angleterre_ called softly, and the Frenchman grimaced. It was always _Amerique_, wasn't it?

_"__And on and on from the moment I wake,_

_To the moment I sleep,_

_I'll be there by your side,_

_Just you try and stop me,_

_I'll be waiting in line,_

_Just to see if you care."_

Still singing, France made himself comfortable in the armchair he had been occupying less than half an hour ago. It wouldn't be a long night – _Angleterre_ had the ingrained habit of waking up at 06:45 AM sharp. Much too early, in the Frenchman's opinion. But it was _Angleterre_'s habit nonetheless. And the Brit would silently thank him, and then leave as quietly as possible. Like every other time. And all France would be left with was the warmth of his body on the mattress, and the scent of his hair on the pillow.

_"__Did you want me to change?_

_Well I changed for good"_

When was the last time France had ever gotten himself involved with someone? Yes, he flirted... Quite a bit and shamelessly, at that. But something serious? Oh, no. He only really married (and consequently divorced) _Angleterre_ now-a-days. Of course, he would prefer if they wouldn't divorce at all. And it had been an awfully long time since the last time they were involved in Holy Matrimony... Only his fame kept people still talking about how _libertine_ he was.

_"__And I want you to know._

_That you'll always get your way_

_I wanted to say,_

_Don't you shiver?_

_Shiver_

_Sing it loud and clear_

_I'll always be waiting for you,_

_So you know how much I need you,_

_But you never even see me, do you?_

_And is this my final chance of getting you?"_

He missed the days _Angleterre_ would sneak in his bed. Or simply sit in his office sipping a cup of tea while he worked. Or how the Brit would walk uninvited into his house and stay for a whole week at times. Those were the days, in France's opinion. The days... The good ol' days. He kind of missed them.

_"__And on and on from the moment I wake,_

_To the moment I sleep,_

_I'll be there by your side,_

_Just you try and stop me,_

_I'll be waiting in line,_

_Just to see if you care."_

_Angleterre_... He would wake up in – exactly – five hours and a half. France wondered if he should ask for breakfast to be served at seven. Maybe... He should have thought about that before. Really. Well, he would start the trend next year. _Angleterre_ was much too thin for his tastes.

_"__Oh, oh, oh, oh._

_Did you want me to change?_

_Well I changed for good_

_And I want you to know._

_That you'll always get your way_

_I wanted to say,_

_Don't you Shiver?_

_Don't you Shiver?"_

Despite being tired as hell, France made sure his voice was still strong. He didn't want _Angleterre_ to wake up, after all. The Englishman was much too cute at the moment.

_"__Sing it loud and clear._

_I'll always be waiting for you._

_Yeah I'll always be waiting for you._

_Yeah I'll always be waiting for you._

_Yeah I'll always be waiting for you."_

He really, really loved_ Angleterre. _Even if it wasn't reciprocate. Even if the Brit couldn't put two and two together and see that France was madly in love with him. Had been for centuries, and probably wouldn't stop anytime soon.

He really, really loved _Angleterre_. Even if the Brit loved another man. Even if the Brit couldn't love him back.

He could never hold it against _Angleterre_. Because he loved the Brit. And that was enough. It had to be enough. It just had.

_"__For you,_

_I will always be waiting."_*

Smiling sadly, France picked up the empty wine-glass he had all but forgotten earlier and held it up; making sure the light hit it just right to give it an ethereal glow. Just his luck, he supposed. To be in love with a man for centuries on end, share his bed more than any other nation, and, yet, having the same aforementioned man continuously slipping between his fingers. "Are you ever going to see how much I care for you, _Albion_?"

The flicker of green between the long lashes of his guest passed unnoticed by France. Lost in his own thoughts, the Frenchman also missed England calling for him; a soft whisper broken in the warmth of his chambers that never reached his ears.

_"__Gaul... France..."_

~o~

So... This is the rewritten version of a fic of mine, as stated in the summary. After receiving a very kind review asking for a sequel, I decided to give it a try. And what better way than to read my work once again? Yeah. I did that. And thus... _Sillage_ was born. With its sequel _Querencia_ on the way, as of yet. _Sillage_ isn't all that different from my original work, just better constructed and with a few more paragraphs. In my opinion, at least. I will let the original work up, no worries. Just wanted to share my (maybe?) growth as a writer with you guys. Well, thanks for reading.

Oh! Before I forget, on the 4th of July I will add a small teaser for _Querencia_ here. And on the 5th, _Querencia_ should be up.


	2. Preview of Querencia

Warnings: Slash; mentions of alcohol consumption.

_Disclaimer: Axis Power Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. _

_Suggestion:"Bless the broken road*" by Rascal Flatts._

~o~

Querencia

_A place from which one's strength is drawn, where one feels at home; the place where you are your most authentic self._

~o~

England took solace in the soft sheets, the cushy mattress and the fluffy pillow. In France's cologne's lingering smell, that seemed impregnated in all of the above, and in warmth of the room. He needed to _think_. Think fast and think _hard_.

And he did. He thought of France. And he thought of love and friendship and kinship and companionship, and _goddamnit_ he thought of freedom to be himself. He thought of his childhood. And he thought of blond hair and blue eyes. And a tunic that looked like a dress. And he thought of battles and wars and sadness and blood. He thought of adventure and of the New World. And he thought of pirates and the sea and sailing into the horizon. He thought of cannons and dreams. He thought of a little boy in a vast field. He thought of America. He thought of family. And he thought of France. Again. And again. _And again_. And then he went back to thinking of the little boy he met so many centuries ago_._ And he thought about how he had loved that little boy like he never loved another. How he opened his heart only to have it broken later on. And he thought of France twice more.

And then England understood he knew nothing of – or about – love.

~o~


End file.
